Honeybee

Chapter One~Wicked Disease

Chapter One
Wicked Disease
Elizabeth Masen
Chicago, Illinois. August, 1918.

Finally.

It's strange, my husband of nearly nineteen years is lying dead on a hospital cot in front of me and yet all I can think is...finally.

It had been a horrible thing to witness. The coughing, blood, fever, and pain he had experienced was of no comfort for the sickness to come for myself and my son. We had been exposed the moment he had begun coughing at the dinner table, and with how quickly he declined, it was safe to assume that he had been infected for several days. Thus, exposing myself and Edward to the disease as well.

Upon our arrival at the hospital Friday evening, it was made clear to us that we would not be leaving until either deemed well enough to or when deceased. Now, only a mere two days later, my husband was dead from his symptoms. Younger people tended to survive it if treated diligently, and so my main focus was on keeping Edward alive now. If anyone is going to survive this, it's going to be him.

"Elizabeth." Carlisles' soothing voice spoke my name with a hushed reverence. "I'm sorry for your loss." He apologized as nurses began covering my husbands body and prepared to take him down to the morgue.

"You tried your best, more than I did, and there's nothing to be done now." I shook my head. "Thank you." I added quickly, and he bowed his head slightly before leaving the room with the nurses.

"Mother." Edward groaned pitifully from his cot on the opposite wall.

Much to my dismay, he began to show symptoms early this morning and has declined rapidly throughout the day. Carlisle has assured me that the worst day tends to be the first and last, as patients get used to the pain of the symptoms and the last day is spent in such a delirium from the fever that they aren't fully conscious.

"Oh, I'm right here my sweet boy." I cooed, going to sit next to him and work to cool him down some with a wet cloth. "I won't leave you." I swore to him.

"Father's dead. I'm next, aren't I?" He coughed harshly, pain and fear distorting his beautiful face.

"No, you mustn't say things like that." I chided him, a stab of fear piercing my heart at the idea of having to lose another child.

"Please mother, I can tell you're worried." He cried, his fever reaching such a high level that the rag in my hands felt as if it were on fire.

"I'm your mother, you're sick, of course I'm worried." I laughed at him as I tried to keep myself from crying. "You need to rest, Edward. Please, try to get some sleep. Please, if not for yourself than to soothe my worry?"

"Will you sing to me?" He asked, coughs taking over his burning failing body. "The Irish lullaby?"

"Of course." I smiled down at him before beginning to softly sing the Hebridean Lullaby my mother used to sing to me. "Coo roo koo, cooruku, coo ru ku, coo ku. Coo roo koo, cooruku, coo ru ku, coo ku."

Edward stirred, settling down and instantly looking more peaceful than before. The motherly instincts in me wanted to cry with joy that I was easing some of his pain.

"Oh hush thee my dove, oh hush thee my sweet love. Oh hush thee my lap wing, my dear little bird. Oh, fold your wings and seek your nest now. The berries shine on the old rowan tree. The bird is home from the hills and valleys. Coo roo koo, cooruku, coo ru ku, coo ku. Coo roo koo, cooruku, coo ru ku, coo ku."

By the end of the lullaby, Edward was sleeping somewhat soundly, and I decided to occupy myself by doting over him. Fixing his hair, wet with perspiration, was a hopeless task even if it were perfectly dry. So, I settled for shedding some layers off of him and wiping the worst of the perspiration off of his skin.